Fancying You So Much
by sneauxfo
Summary: Rex makes a mistake in judgment, and his boyfriend stresses over it. Gatlocke/Rex


**Title: **Fancying You So Much

**Summary:** Rex makes a mistake in judgment, and his boyfriend stresses over it. GatRex

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Gatlocke hears the room's door slide open from his dreams, and that's all it takes for him to wake up.

He doesn't remember what he was dreaming of, he hardly ever does, but it's left him with a cold sweat over his skin, a tension in his chest, and a heavy weight in his gut. Not a good dream, for certain. But all of that dissipates as the mattress leans outward, supporting a second body.

Gatlocke rolls over lazily, letting his arms fall open, and letting Rex fall into them. The latter hasn't bothered shedding any of his clothing, so it's filth on flesh since Gatlocke had chosen to sleep tonight in the nude, but he sympathizes. This place, Providence, is not unlike any other shmuck-run corporation that Gatlocke's sneered at in the past; it likes working its operatives to the bone. The dirt and grime don't bother him, and this is still a far cry from the hygiene of his old life. At least now he has a shower to step into come morning.

"Welcome back" is the intended script he had ready; nothing fancy or witty or particularly meaningful, but it gets the message across, doesn't require too much thought, and he can slip back into a comatose slumber right after. It doesn't happen quite like that, though. The wetness on Rex is somewhat crusty, and warm to the point of being almost hot, and the scent that comes with it is unmistakable. So what comes out of Gatlocke's mouth instead is, "Are you bleeding?"

"It's okay," Rex murmurs, the sentence is huffed warmly to the side of Gatlocke's neck. "It's not mine."

Even as he says that, more of it is spilling around Gatlocke's waist, collecting where their combined weight makes the mattress dip. Rex's lack of movement does no better to ease any worry.

"Rex," but Gatlocke has nothing to say after that. Instead, he's propping himself partway up on one elbow, ignoring as the fluids follow the new grooves and slide around his skin, reaching his other hand towards the nightstand.

"It's his. Six's." Rex isn't really saying anything anymore, and Gatlocke isn't really listening. "Six got hurt. He-"

Gatlocke's fingers locate the light switch and flip it, and as light floods the room, a full slew of swear words automatically drop from his mouth. Blood, he had expected that. But not this. A fuckton of it. A fucking fuckton. Everywhere. A few handprints of it on the door, splatters of it trailing across the carpet and over the sheets, and finally pooling around them. It's all over Rex, and now it's all over Gatlocke too.

"S'okay," Rex is mumbling. "S'not mine."

And bollocks if Gatlocke doesn't lose his shit right then and there.

He rings Six (who doesn't answer), he rings Holiday (who does), he rings the main infirmary (because Holiday had instructed him to, along with staunch the bleeding and elevate the wound, except the wound is somewhere on Rex's torso so how the hell do you even elevate that, and more and more red just keeps blossoming through no matter how many times Gatlocke folds more clean parts of the bedsheets on top, and goddammit there's already so much of that color splattered across the floor, how much blood could there even be left).

Rex looks sickly pale, like a fading photograph. He's cold, too. Not just a skin-shallow chill, either; it's an internal change. He's leaking all his brightness and warmth out in fluid ounces. Gatlocke runs hands through Rex's hair, over his face, along his neck- there's still a pulse there, he can feel it, it's there- talking to him, saying some things aloud and thinking others, and he's so stricken and frazzled and _pissed_ that he's a rounded-up inch from strangling the last bits of life from the teenager.

A handful of the medical staff finally shows up. One of the nurses is startled by his state of undress and covers her eyes, shrieking. Gatlocke promptly yanks them back down and lets her know that if Rex dies, he'll hold _her_ personally responsible, and of course he won't kill her (since after all, she is a lady before she is a simpleton), but he damn well will guiltlessly pluck out her left eye, if only to brutally fuck the socket since his semen just may be the magic additive to jump-start her brain lest she reacts in similar idiotic fashion for future crises.

Because if there is something or another to be said of Gatlocke, it would be that he's a little bit impatient, and a lotta bit insane.

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In hindsight, he's aware he shouldn't have acted out the way he had.

He's slumped low in his seat, legs straight out and crossed and his arms folded. He's clad only in a pair of black trousers he's haphazardly yanked on that he still hasn't bothered to button or zip. Rex is in the bed next to him, wired in and tubed up and "stable" is the word the doctor had used. He's breathing alright, and the heart monitor hasn't flatlined; people, when unconscious in hospital beds, don't do many extraordinary things too often. But Gatlocke is unable to think up any good reason to go, so he remains. And recounts exactly how many times he had cursed in that evening alone.

_Really, Gatlocke?_ he reprimands himself. _And then, to a dame, too._ The nurse he's threatened has actually formed a habit to shutdown mentally at the mere sight of him now, and begins crying whenever she has to go anywhere near him, so an in-person apology looks to be more harmful than helpful. Ultimately, he decides he'll send her flowers. Perhaps he'll get Rex to deliver them.

Every so often, Doctor Holiday has to readjust one of the baggies or needles, or press a few buttons on the machine-things. As she passes him, a corner of her lips curls, as if she can smell something rancid. She also tends to shoot him sidelong glances of disdain while keeping eyes tactfully anywhere else besides his exposed groin. She doesn't approve of him, much less his relationship with Rex, which is a shame because she is quite the fox of the facility, and Gatlocke likes to be liked by women- especially the attractive ones.

It's noticeable, though, that every time she comes around, she appears surprised to find him still there. Each time that happens, her face seems to soften. She doesn't glare quite as much, and her mouth eventually stops curling. At one point, she briefs him on the whys and hows, and the only reason he manages to absorb any information from that is because of lack of stimulation elsewhere.

_"…a mission…Rex brought him back…shock, which induces numbness…I should've looked closer…major artery…"_

Gatlocke leaves before she finishes, partially satisfied at the feel of her renewed glare at his back.

No one's gotten around to cleaning up the bloodspill yet, so there are blatant splashes of crimson along Providence's otherwise immaculately white corridors. Gatlocke finds it quite fitting for Rex to be the one to bring some color to this place.

The room's a bit overdone, though. Looks like a murder scene, something out of a gore film. Gatlocke doesn't even bother sidestepping puddles as he heads for the bathroom.

It's less of a real shower, and more just him standing under running hot water until there's no more red on him. He opts against towel-drying, dripping everywhere, kicking off his sopping jeans in abandon and going through the drawers to find a dry pair. This time, he does do up the fly at least, though he doesn't pay much attention and some of his pubic hairs end up getting lodged in the zipper teeth, but he doesn't care enough to want to do it over. The apathy sticks as he walks through the congealing blood pools once again, dotting footprints in the halls alongside the drying red slops leading back to the infirmary.

When he returns to where Rex is, Agent Six is standing at the foot of the bed. For the most part, at least. He's leaning heavily on a crutch, and has another hand on Holiday's waist for support. He and Holiday are speaking quietly to one another, and as far as Gatlocke can tell for those impossibly dark sunglasses, Six's gaze doesn't leave the teenager on the bed.

Gatlocke doesn't realize his fists are clenched until Six leaves with Holiday, and he's able to relax again. Truthfully, the sight of the green-dressed agent is rather irksome at the moment.

For one, according to Holiday, Rex didn't notice his own state of unhealthy because of Six, and that almost killed him. Two, Gatlocke's always had this inkling that the two of them at least used to have something going on between them. (Rex always denies this, but Gatlocke's confident the teen will slip up one of these days.) And three, there's got to be something barmy about someone if their hand is that close to an arse magnificent as that and they have no inclination to latch onto it.

But Gatlocke isn't the type to harbor grudges for long, and once he retakes his previous seat, he almost forgets the agent had even been there. He's leaning on the bedrail now, long bored of this waiting game. If Six is up and about, Rex should at least be conscious by now.

His face still appears pale, especially under this harsh lighting. Gatlocke ghosts a finger over it, draws back when Rex sighs audibly. The skin of his cheek feels cold, but soft.

Gatlocke pinches it.

Pinches harder.

Pinches harder and tugs.

"Oww," Rex finally gripes, and the word comes out gravelly and mushed-sounding as he stirs. His brow furrows. "No painkillers?"

"Nope," Gatlocke replies swiftly. "I tried to convince the nurses otherwise, but they wouldn't hear it. They must hate you something awful."

Rex makes a noise that sounds like a pained cough, but the corners of his mouth are turned upwards. "Liar." When his eyes open, they're tired, unfocused, yet above all, warmly lit. Alive.

Gatlocke pinches his cheek again, hard enough gain a wince. "Who's the liar?"

"Didn't lie." Rex frowns and turns his head away from the offending fingers. It's the only adverse move he seems able to make; the anesthetics still retain some degree of effect after all. "I just... Six's blood was all over. And I didn't even feel much of anything- I didn't know it was mine, too." Rex turns away again, only this time it's not because of Gatlocke's odd torment. The expression on his face is a mix of sheepish, embarrassed, and uncomfortable. "My bad."

"Your bad," Gatlocke concurs dryly, thumbing over the flushed spot of bothered skin on the teen's face. He's dead exhausted and kind of chilled and still has pubes caught in his pants zipper. He can still see Rex from earlier- Rex silent and still, looking as if he'd already died. "You numbnut."

He gets up to lean over the bed and kisses him.

It's different than how they usually go at it, though. Gatlocke keeps the pace languid, and any pressure feather-light. He dips in at an easy parallel, letting their noses touch and bump. The taste is of blood and unwashed mouth, but it's the feel that has Gatlocke prying- the feel of response, of being kissed back. Rex exhales his name and Gatlocke inhales the breath. He's got one hand on Rex's chest, pushing firm over the heart beating there. The other is curved along Rex's neck, thumb steady against the pulse-point.

Rex catches the drift, and begins grinning against the kisses, and Gatlocke pulls away before the boy can get too smug about it. But he takes a minute to appreciate the new blush of pink on a complexion that is now much closer to its normal color.

"Best get your beauty sleep, before I stop fancying you so much."

That one earns him a brief show of teeth in form of a goofy smile, and the lame little thing remains even after Rex closes his eyes.

Gatlocke sits back down and lingers a while.

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End file.
